


Bring Me The Horizon

by Efrebekah, Johniarty



Series: His Investment [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dark Doctor (Doctor Who), Dark John, Dark John Watson, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Efrebekah/pseuds/Efrebekah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/pseuds/Johniarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the far reaches of the universe there is a darkness that consumes all it touches. One being walks in the nightmares of billions, seeking only to bring pain and destruction. But even a creature so powerful requires the assistance of others. Doctor John Watson is in for the shock of a lifetime when he is chosen for employment alongside this cruel man, and chaos awaits around every corner. But is the Doctor really all he is shown to be, or will Doctor Watson find that there is something far more terrifying hidden within his blackened hearts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the start of a potentially long-running series about the adventures of The Dark!Doctor and Dark!John, as penned by myself (writing for John) and Efrebekah (writing for Doc). It began as a roleplay thread and spiraled into a large universe for our interpretations. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoy writing it!

 

Azure light glared off sheer metal, flashing around the room in circles. The man who stood in the center paid the glow no mind; it was his space. The redesign took place centuries ago, the cool refinement matching his temperament far better than any of the ship’s other ideas. It was unwelcoming. Harsh.

Quick fingers danced over switches and knobs on the panel before him. His mind was focused on one mission alone: the next stage in his everlasting life. The next employee. The next weapon.

A hand flashed out to reach for the scanner, pulling it toward the dark figure silently. Images flickered across its screen, jumping through signals in a blur of color. Emerald eyes stayed on the screen as long fingers began to type away, entering medical detail and background for one name. It was all the ship would need to fix on a location. After all, the being at the console performed this very task several times a day now to gather intel.

To watch.

He needed to be certain this was the right choice. By now, the man had decided. A made-up mind only meant a simple task to perform at this point in time: the pick-up.

The figure studied his monitor, the specs analysis of his new target scrolling by as he read. Lips curled into a satisfactory smile as he was presented with the subject’s timeline. He knew just when to intrude. Making a small gesture with his fingertips, a date and scene from the timeline were pulled from the screen and stretched before him in a projection of smoke, gunfire ringing in his ears as comrades called orders to one another. His interest was on that of one man, now just on the edge of jumping into the barrage of bullets. This would be his chance.

Bringing his hands together as if to clap, the projection came together in a ball of light in his palm, which he held under the scanner and released. Immediately, the engines shuddered to life, the floor beneath the man’s feet, bucking sharply as it transported them to a new destination. Within moments, all was still.

 

_Thun thun thun thun._

 

The being blinked and shook his head roughly before pushing away from the console. In long strides, he reached the doors and pushed, swinging them open to a battlefield, clouds of dust billowing in. The victim he searched the universe for crouched only feet from the being, still focused on his mission and firing rounds into the enemy fray with narrowed eyes.

"I believe you’re Doctor Watson," he said, as though carrying on a normal conversation and waiting for him to turn. Once he did, the other smiled, lips twisting.   _"I’ve waited a long time for you."_  

* * *

 

War. God, but he loved it. The acrid smoke, the blood, the heat of it surrounded him, filling his every sense… There was nowhere on earth John Watson would rather be. He lifted his rifle to his shoulders and fired, taking down two of the militia peppering his fellow soldiers with bullets. Somewhere sat two snipers; he could hear their rifles, kicking up dirt and dust nearby. Single shots, not fired from an automatic.

He prepared himself to jump, to run into the fray and grab one of the British soldiers bleeding on the sands, when someone behind him breathed his name.

John whirled, grabbing his gun tighter as he sized the man up. The man and his — police box?

"I’m… I’m sorry, who are yo—"

One shot.

One bullet.

It tore through his armor, through his skin and sinew as it pierced him. John’s dark cobalt eyes widened in surprise, the words fading into a scream of agony as he clutched his bleeding shoulder.

The being’s brow raised just slightly in subtle surprise. He had hoped to arrive before this moment, not _cause_ it. He sighed and gave a small shrug, knowing it could have been much worse—at least the soldier would not be lame.

Barely clinging to consciousness on the ground, one thought echoed through John’s mind--who stitches up the medic, then?

Quickly, the other swooped down and caught John Watson beneath his arms and lifted him easily. He turned the man towards the ship’s entrance and gave him a little push before allowing his gaze to shift and keep an eye on any other possible intrusions.

"Don’t worry," the alien commented. "You’ll be fine. There are just some pieces of history that are bound to stay unchanged." He glanced back with slightly narrowed eyes, and seeing the army doctor still hadn’t moved he growled, "Well go on, get in! Can’t stand here all day, can we?"

Stumbling, bleeding through his fingers, John entered the box, the man following quickly behind and shutting the doors immediately. It seemed bigger on the inside, but right then John didn’t give much of a fuck. He fell to his knees, his free hand clutching at the railing.

"What… What is this?” To the soldier, it looked like something out of Star Trek— a spaceship. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Technology like that?

Without hesitation the being strode to the console to cloak them while John blundered in, not wanting to risk the blue box sitting so openly under such conditions. He turned to face the soldier as he’s addressed, assessing him silently in response.

 _Best not to take off._ There was no need to further distress or injure the man he sought out so diligently to become his ally, his accomplice. He needed this soldier in working condition.

“And what… ‘bound to stay unchanged’?” John continued. “So I’m supposed to take a bullet here? Great, that’s… that’s really fucking fantastic.”

John pushed himself back to his feet and took a handful of steps toward the strange man with the magic box.

“Who are you?”

The brunette leaned back, arms crossing. “To answer your questions in order, this is a TARDIS. Stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space. She’s my ship and home, and yours too, now. Also yes, that would be correct Doctor Watson: you were indeed supposed to take a bullet no matter what,” he continues, not allowing the other to interrupt with his no doubt intolerant and pointless questions and protests. “And _I,_ " he says, the ghost of a smile appearing on his lips, "am the Doctor: most feared being in all the cosmos, **_and_** _your new employer._ ”

"Not human," John choked. "And I’m not just delusional? You’ve got a fucking spaceship?"

On his feet once more, he lurched forward, inspecting the console. Nothing was  written in any language he could understand, though he recognized a corded telephone and a few other bits and pieces of familiar technology.

"Christ, that’s… If, if I knew as a kid that I’d—"

His wonder was cut short as his legs gave out once more. He needed to stop the bleeding. The doctor within took over as he began to strip his kevlar, rooting around in the pockets of his jacket for supplies. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of blood on your floor,” he groaned, finally down to just his bloodstained vest. John wads up his jacket and presses it to the jagged hole, the exit wound on the front of his shoulder.

Backwards.

It’s a funny little thought, flitting through his mind for an instant before it vanished into nothingness. Watching John Watson carefully the Doctor reacted quickly when the man stumbled, grabbing him beneath the

arms again.

"Not from you, I don’t," he puffed as he lowered the soldier onto the floor and knelt beside him.

"Doctor, yeah? Don’t suppose you’ve got a medical bay on this Tardis of yours, do you? I’m… I’m going to need blood. And a kit to sew this mess up."

They could work out the logistics of his employment when he wasn’t dying on the floor.

"I’ll get you fixed up, no worries. However," the time lord responded, pausing to look steadily at the man, eyes narrowed slightly. "There’s something I need you to understand before we begin anything." The Doctor’s hand moved up, brushing aside Watson’s easily. Thumb finding both the entrance and exit wound on either side of John’s body, the Doctor squeezed, his gaze unchanged. _"I don’t have to,"_ he growled. “And from here on out every word I say will be your guide, every _order **will**_ be carried out, do you understand? We are not friends, nor will we ever be. _You work for me now. And I expect you to do far better than this.”_

The pain that flared through his wound is unbearable. John screamed as the world went black for a moment, reeling as the ‘Doctor’ squeezed. Hell, he was in hell, he died on the field. That was the only answer for this, for the strange man with the spaceship and cruel words.

"Alright! Just, just stop, please!"

Letting go, the Doctor smiled and picked himself up, waving a hand behind him. “If you follow me I’ll be happy to fix that lovely wound of yours and show you where you will be staying afterwards.” Glancing behind him, the time lord smirked. “Try not to wander off.”

When he was finally free of the unforgiving grasp, John dragged himself after the ‘Doctor’. Barely conscious, fighting through the waves of agony wracking his body, he knew it’d be over soon— he’ll either get the bleeding stopped, or he’ll die on the way to the medical bay.

Without offering the man behind him help, the Doctor took a sharp turn right, and the bright fluorescents of the Medical Bay blinded him momentarily. Blinking to adjust, the time lord cleared his vision before heading over to a counter up against the wall and pulled drawers open to retrieve gauze, a clean syringe, a personal kit he assembled with sutures, tweezers, and needles. After assembling these on the counter, he pulled out peroxide and cotton balls—though less sophisticated, a much quicker cleaning method in the time lord’s mind.

Keeping up with The Doctor was difficult, but John managed to drag himself along. His body shut down, bit by bit. Everything felt cold, and the blackness spread across his eyes. The pressure he placed on the bullet wound grew weaker; blood dripped between his fingers, spattering the floor of the Tardis

"You can sit up there,"  the alien said, arm gesturing toward the bed nearest him and transferring all the materials he had gathered onto a small metal rolling table and pushing it in the same direction. "Afghanistan." the Doctor comments as he turns to watch the man enter, leaning lightly against the bed. "Why is it you chose to fight?"

With some difficulty, John climbed onto the table and lay back with a sharp grunt. The weight of his body helped, at least where the exit wound was concerned.

The Doctor’s eyes followed Watson carefully as he pulled himself onto the table, even giving the man a bit of support as he clambered up. Leaning over, the Doctor applied pressure to the wound himself, swatting the soldier’s hand out of the way. He could feel the sluggish pulse of blood beneath his fingertips. After reaching for the cleaning materials with his other hand, the Doctor let go and instead pulled at the hole the bullet made, subsequently tearing away the fabric.

"Because," John rasped, "I wanted to. I’ve been… It’s been hard. I’ve suffered. I wanted to show… Show I’m better than it. Than my life. I wanted to prove, to myself and— I wanted to prove I’m worth something."

"This isn’t going to feel nice," he commented, allowing Watson’s answer to fall between them. Soaking a cotton ball in peroxide, the Doctor began wiping the now much slower flow of blood clear of the wound. With the next, he pressed against it firmly, holding the soaking cotton in place.

"Suffered, eh?" the Doctor asked, eyes casting up just so. "I know that feeling." The comment came out as a  whisper, and the Doctor looked away once more, his motions near-robotic as he removed the cottonball, his fingers stained a dark crimson, and threads the needle with sutures.

"Stay still," he demanded, leaning studiously over the man’s arm and holding it down with his left hand. Carefully, the Doctor began the task of closing the wound.

"Take this as a chance to prove your worth, soldier." The words hung in the air for a moment as the Doctor continued slowly, knowing the man would only need a few stitches on each side.

His worth. John barely hung on, clinging to consciousness as his heart slowed. He knew he’d lost too much blood— as the Doctor stitched his wound, all he can do is lay there and tremble as shock took hold. John gave himself ten minutes, if that, before his organs began to shut down.

Speaking was impossible. He barely registered the pain of his flesh knitting together as the Doctor worked. It felt more dull than the agony of the alcohol, barely worth the mental effort it required to acknowledge it. John needed to stay awake. If he lost consciousness, he might never wake up.

If he lost consciousness, he wouldn’t be able to prove himself.

The silence stretched, and the Doctor became uncomfortable. Something was wrong. As he finished closing the first wound, the time lord looked over the soldier before him, his eyes catching the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his breaths grew shorter.

"Watson?" he asked, hoping for a response and yet knowing it was pointless. " _Watson, can you hear me?”_ he asked urgently, leaning over the man and patting his cheek. “You have to stay awake for me, okay? You’re almost done. _Watson??”_

The time lord could hear the panic in his own voice. He had spent so long searching for this man, so long looking forward to all that he would be able to accomplish, what _needed_ to be done. It couldn’t be over before it even started.

 **_"John!_ ** _For god’s sake, just, just… **move** something, move anything for me, **please** if you can hear me just **do**_ **that!”**

With a groan of frustration and frantic movement, the Doctor lifted Watson by his shoulder. His gaze rested on the entrance wound, and the time lord fought back a noise of desperation. Blood still flowed freely from it, every beat of the soldier’s heart sending more to pool and drip from the bed.

 _"Shit,"_ he cursed quietly. The bullet must have grazed John’s subclavian artery, allowing him to gradually bleed out.

"John, I’m going to help you, okay? Just hang on for me. Don’t go anywhere, alright? You can’t die on me, Watson. _Not now,_ " he said steadily, reaching around for a pair of clamps and his sutures. He held these between his teeth—hopefully Watson would never have to know this, as any sane doctor would disapprove—then grabbed for a scalpel. He brings this to the bullet wound and presses into John’s skin from a little above the wound to a little below--enough for an opening. As he kept this larger wound open, the Doctor took hold of the two clamps in his mouth, reaching into the skin with gentle fingers, eyes searching frantically for the damaged artery. He found it quickly and attached a clamp to either end of the hole, effectively staunching the continued loss of the soldier’s blood as well as temporarily cutting off circulation to his arm. With nimble hands, he began making the smallest of stitches. Within ten minutes, the Doctor could find the close to be no cleaner, his sutures impeccable. Heaving a sigh, his focus shifted to taking care of the skin he had cut open himself and finding that he was nearly annoyed by the fact that he had to wait until after the next set of stitches to clean everything simply to avoid getting chemicals further into Watson’s body. Following this, he managed to pad gauze onto both sides, pulling medical tape around Watson’s shoulder to hold it all in place.

Finally complete, he leaned over the soldier once more, emerald eyes sweeping over the faintest of life signs. There. A stir of breath, much deeper than it had been. The twitch of a finger and the movement of eyes beneath the lids. The time lord visibly relaxed, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he held.

"Sure know how to give a man a run for his money, don’t you Watson?" The comment was more to himself than anything, and the Doctor waited silently for a moment or so longer. Then, without warning, his hand strikes across the army doctor’s cheek.

"Can’t lay there forever, Watson. _Get up._ I know you’re better than this, now _show me you were worth saving, dammit.”_

_"I’ll always protect my investments."_

Bright pain flares through John’s skin. Unbeknownst to him, he’d faded into unconsciousness. The doctor’s slap rouses him, the noise of the strike almost as useful as the pain itself. John shouts, blinking against the bright light of the Tardis’ medical room.

Spaceship. The Doctor. Tardis.

The Doctor blinked as Watson’s shout is amplified in the near-empty room, his hands curling into fists. _It had to have worked. He’s okay, he has to be._

"M’up," John mumbled, taking a shaky breath. He lay still, unable to feel his arm from the shoulder down. "Think I’m going to pull through?" The room swam around him, but John clung to the thread of consciousness the Doctor gave him.

The time lord’s palms opened again, fingers stretching in a relaxed response to the man’s first uttered words.

“You’ll be fine,” he commented, allowing the smallest of smiles as reassurance. “You’ll always be in good hands here, Watson.”

"I am." The words sounded feeble, John’s voice cracking as he speaks. The Doctor’s brow furrows slightly in confusion at the mumbled words before John continues: "I am worth saving.” Stronger, then. “I. Am. Worth. Saving.”

The Doctor’s lips curled in a tight smile at the man’s answer, the reply just what he wanted to hear. “That’s good, my dear soldier, very good. Now,” he sighed, gesturing before him. “It’s time we’ve moved on, don’t you think? I need to brief you and show you where you’ll be staying. Oh, and here.” The man moved to a corner of the room, rifling through cabinets until he found what he was looking for and returning to his new employee. “You’ll need this until you get your strength back.” It was a cane, long and sleek, the classic black tone only interrupted by an insignia near the top he had long since lost the meaning of.

"You may be glad to know you’re far more than just a toy soldier now."

Bracing himself on the cane, John pushed himself off the medical table and limped after the Doctor. It was rough, at first— the pressure on his shoulder seemed almost too much to bear, but he powered through it in silence. Now and again a grunt of pain slipped from his throat, but he never voiced complaint.

 _More than a toy soldier._ Of course he was. He’s a bloody captain, and a survivor to boot. He’d damn well be more than another poor bastard with a rifle. John nodded at the Doctor’s compliment, marching through the agony of his fresh stitches.

Finding himself finally in the right place with a man no longer losing his life, the Doctor paused just inside the archway of what would now be Watson’s bedroom.

"Here you are," he stated, an arm sweeping across the space in an open gesture. The room was unexpectedly small for the TARDIS, but he didn’t make that decision. The ship felt out each guest for their liking. It was quaint and clean. A king bed stood in the center of the room on a black square platform, giving way to a lush carpet of metallic gray. To the right of the bed stood a dresser, a mirror hanging above it, and next to that was a door which undoubtedly led to an extraordinary closet. The TARDIS did like to impress with the clothes it provided for his employees. On the opposite side of the room was an open archway into the bathroom—no doubt also exceptional.

"Feel free to make it your home," the Doctor commented as he drew his gaze back to John. "The TARDIS will fit your wants and desires as they come. Any art or additional furniture can be added just by requesting thanks to the ship’s matter materializer."

The time lord hesitated, his shoulders falling slightly into a more relaxed stance as he studied the soldier leaning heavily on his new cane. “Try to rest.” The words come out almost gentle. Caring. “You’ll need to let those stitches heal a bit before moving around too much. Should you need any help, feel free to ask.” The offer was not a dry one, though part of the Doctor squirmed at the idea of sparing his time planning on recovering the soldier. It was something that needed to be done and a trust that needed to be formed if his investment was not to be wasted. He would take great care of such things.

"I’ll see you tomorrow then? Give you a tour, perhaps, and begin your training assessments—all mental for now, no worries," The Doctor’s eyes crinkled slightly, the faintest of smiles passing his lips at these words. _Oh, what trials indeed._

The room is small, sure, John thought,but it was finer than any flat he ever had. Though he wanted to explore, John forced himself toward the bed and lay down atop the covers. Training… training will be difficult. He wasn’t sure he’d be up to task in the morning, but he knew he had to try.

"Yeah, tomorrow. Thank you again, Doctor. I… I appreciate it."

The Doctor smirked at Watson’s thanks. Gaining his loyalty really was not so hard. Gaining his trust would be solved tomorrow.

 _Thank you._ The words meant nothing to him but the guaranteed debt the man would have to repay for the rest of his life, and on this ship, that life would go on for centuries.

The time lord left his new recruit long before he was done speaking, satisfaction flooding his veins as he continued down the hall. He raised a hand, allowing his fingertips to glide over the cool metal in the darkness. With his search over and his trophy obtained, the Doctor would begin the _real_ work—breaking the man he saved until there was nothing left and molding him into a weapon the likes of which would help him tear down whole civilizations with fire burning in their wake.

As his eyes closed, John couldn’t help but wonder how different his life would be if he’d bled out on the sand.

Would he have been rescued in time? Would he have died?

Before long, the stress of the day caught up to John and he fell fast asleep, locked in dreams filled with blood and smoke. Trembling, weak, somehow he stayed silent as he shook against the mattress. He died, again and again, as the sand soaked redder around him. Bullet after bullet shattered his bone and sprayed tissue behind him.

When he woke, he didn’t feel rested. In fact, John felt worse than he did the day before. His body was trying to heal, after all, and his mind wouldn’t quiet enough for him to have peace.

 


	2. The Darkness Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor begins to test John's strength of willpower with the assistance of their number-one training ground: the Holo Room. At what cost will the time lord go to reveal his new employee's limits?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is the start of a potentially long-running series about the adventures of The Dark!Doctor and Dark!John, as penned by myself (writing for John) and Efrebekah (writing for Doc). It began as a roleplay thread and spiraled into a large universe for our interpretations. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoy writing it!

With the TARDIS to remind him it was morning for John, the Doctor found himself sending a hologram message to Watson’s room.

"Rise and shine there, soldier!" The man smiled slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly. John woke to the sound of the Doctor’s voice. Bloodshot eyes blinked up at the hologram, bleary from his restless evening. The time lord could see Watson himself through the monitor of which he sent the message. Through tangled hair, creased skin and dark eyes, the Doctor saw that his worker received little rest. Perfect. “I see you’re just about ready to go, then? Get cleaned up and meet me in the Holo-Room. The TARDIS will direct you. Don’t be late.”

“Holo-room, got it. I’ll be there in fifteen.” He dragged himself out of bed with the aid of the cane, and hobbled into the bathroom. Too tired to appreciate the sleek, futuristic look of it, he showered and brushed his teeth. He doesn’t trust himself to look in the mirror after the night he had. Ten minutes later he followed the path through the Tardis, heading for the Holo-Room.

The Doctor nodded his welcome to John as the man enters, looking only a bit less disheveled thanks to his shower, damp hair pressed against his forehead. The time lord motioned for John to stand in the center of the room, and he took a place in front of him.

"I’m sure National Security will have put you through something similar," he began, a smirk settling on his lips. "Though let me assure you…this will be much, much worse. You see,” he continued, beginning to step around John in a tight circle, closing him in. “This room, though of my creation, does not entirely follow my demand. It follows yours." He paused, allowing the soldier before him to grasp this concept, stopping his stride in front of him once more. "The TARDIS reads you, Watson. Your deepest fears, your darkest nightmares. Should I choose to partake in the scenes that unfold before you will be of my own choosing, and only I have the ability to make it stop, do you understand?”

"Well that’s ominous," John replied, turning his head to track the Doctor’s movements. "Everything I see will be my own design? What exactly will it show?" Images of trust? Scenarios in which he proved his abilities? He could barely move, how is he supposed to do this? "You might have to instruct me the first time. This is, um… well, alien, to me."

The Doctor sighed, shaking his head slightly. “So _dull_ , humans,” he breathed. Looking back up to John, his expression dark, the time lord replied, “ _Yes_ , everything will be of your own creation. Not by direct thought, but projected through your subconscious.” As he spoke, he raised a hand and gestured around John’s head, then pressed his palm against the side of it, his fingertips curling slightly to keep a grip. _"The TARDIS sees what I can now. Your darkest fears and deepest nightmares,"_ he whispered. ”The scenes that grow around you will be created from them. They can be memories or simply events that the TARDIS pieces together from those fears. Events you would never dream of happening simply because you could never fathom such _**t e r r o r s**_ unfolding. _Your worst nightmares shoved into the corner of your mind come to life.”_

The Doctor leaned in now, his face mere inches from the human he took hold of. _"If there is one thing that will get you out of this besides me, it will be this thought, this **b e l i e f** alone.”_

“It’s. Not. Real.”

_"That is this test, and that is your mission. Every wound will burn, every action true. It’s a **holo-room. H o l o g r a m.** It’s meant to confuse you and react around you. You may see ghosts of the long dead or forgotten. They may talk to you, they may hurt you—and not just physically. I can’t promise that by the end of today you won’t feel as though you’ve been through a battlefield, but you **will. be. f i n e.** Have you got that? Not real, soldier._ Now-” The time lord’s tone returned to normal as he blinked, preparing to take a step back. Though before he does, the Doctor placed his hands on John’s shoulders, careful to keep his touch light on the one that was wounded. “I’ll be right here, don’t forget that.” His hands fell, and he proceeded to separate himself from the other. “As for what I say or do to take part of your mind’s creation,” he continued, his tone now firm with that of one in command. “Remember that it is only your _trust_ I am seeking. _Not your a f f e c t i o n s._ ” He raises a hand, thumb and forefinger pressed together

_”Shall we begin?”_ The fingers snap, and the lights around them blink out.

_He’s fourteen again, fingers tangled in Mike’s dark brown hair. Damp with sweat from rugby, but still soft. Always so soft. His lips are even better, tinged with salt as John pulled him closer, losing himself in the feel of their kiss. He’d forgotten how incredible it really was, to lay tangled with another man. Mike was strong and muscular beneath him, lithe from running across the field four times a week but sculpted from physical exercise. Not real, John reminds himself. In the future, Mike will be doughy, after a life of earning his degrees and settling for a career as a medical professor. But right now, he’s at his physical peak, and John adored it._

The Doctor blinked, the sudden scene jarring his mind for a fraction of a second before he adjusted. He shook his head slightly and focused his attention on John as the soldier rolled in the moments of his past. The TARDIS really was quite a machine to admire with its projections both into the room and into one’s mind. The time lord’s interest piqued just slightly as the scene unraveled and a man—undoubtedly Watson’s father— entered.

_The moment was broken, however, when the door to his bedroom slammed open, revealing the black-haired fury of his father. At six feet tall he towered over John, and his crystalline blue eyes burned with disgust as he took in the sight of the boys scrambling apart._

_"Stamford. Get the fuck out of my house. Now."_

_Without a word Mike grabbed his bag and ran, ducking under Richard Watson without so much as casting a glance back at John. “No,” he protested. “Dad, please, don’t—”_

_"Shut the **fuck** up,” Richard spat, storming forward and grabbing John by the arm. He yanked him off the bed and started hauling him toward the kitchen. “I should have known my son was a fucking faggot. Look at how your dyke sister turned out. I didn’t put a stop to it, but this time? This time i fucking can. No son of mine’s gonna be a cock-loving poof!” _

"Dad, stop! I’m not, I swear I’m—"

_The sound of Richard’s hand colliding with John’s skin rang through the room as he slapped him across the mouth, silencing his protests. “Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up, boy?” He drew back again, slamming his fist into John’s stomach. Raining blow after blow, he beat John until he was sobbing, and John could **feel** it. He doubled over, trying to shield himself from the kicks and curses lobbed his way. _

_Finally, panting and sweating, Richard hauled him toward the stairs, half-dragging him by his arm. “When you’ve fucking **thought** about it, and made your fucking decision, you can come back up. Until then, you can stay the fuck down there.” With that, he half-threw him down into the cellar and slammed the door._

_John’s skull collided with the wooden stairs, sending fresh pain bursting behind his eyes. He heard the snap of bone and shrieked in pain, clutching his arm to his chest. When he landed on the stone floor, the air is knocked from his lungs. Wheezing with every breath, John screamed._

_Screamed and screamed, begging for help. For someone to find him. For someone to **save** him. He screamed until his lungs burn and his throat clenched, until his body physically couldn’t, and then he settled for noiseless sobs that wracked his aching body._

If I get out of here, _he thought,_ I’ll kill him. I’ll finally kill that bastard. _Around him, the shadows shifted and twisted into nightmarish creatures that threatened to swallow him, but there’s nothing he could do except watch. Watch, and wait for them to strike._

The time lord watched as Watson was thrust into the worst memories of his youth, beaten and trapped in the dark. He was cornered by the darkness and solitude. 

_"Weak."_ The word was a hiss through his teeth. They were only a few mere minutes into the soldier’s mind and he was already losing. Without a second thought, the Doctor broke the TARDIS’s mirage, stepping through Watson’s vision and entering his shadows.

_"How p a t h e t i c,"_ he breathed, the time lord’s voice melding with those in his recruit’s mind, surrounding him. _"Don’t you have other memories to run from? To **c o w e r** in? **This is nothing.** ”_

_**“Now get UP s o l d i e r!”** _

_Weak. Of course he was weak--his father’s said as much time and time again. John tried to push himself up with his one good arm, hissing in pain as his battered body rose. Weak. He’d show him weak._

_Head throbbing, barely able to see, John attempted the stairs. The rational, adult part of his mind told him he’s down there for two days in the dark, but not this time. Blood dripped from his hairline, gumming up his lashes, but he can’t wipe it away. Not with a broken arm. It wasn’t as though he needed to anyway._

The Doctor’s gaze follows John silently as he moves through his old prison, forcing himself forward. Very good. From his viewpoint, the next floor comes to them, and John has climbed nothing—though not without effort, the time lord will give him that. He refuses to interact, only watching as the man began to break through.

_At the door, he slammed his fist against it. “Let me out,” he rasped. “Let. Me. Out!” Again and again, he struck it, until the door shattered under his fist. The kitchen exists but nothing beyond it besides black— this wasn’t how it went. Now, though, he could change it._

_John grabbed a knife from the counter and limped toward his father, eyes hard, bleeding and broken and thoroughly furious. “What I like doesn’t matter. **Who** I like doesn’t matter. You’re pathetic. Drunk bastard, beating on children because you’re too fucking weak to pick a fight with someone your own size. You’re a worthless cunt, a blister, not even a man. G-god, I hate you. **I HATE YOU!** "_

_Despite his injuries, John surged forward with the blade out. He drove it into his father’s chest, over and over, snarling as Richard Watson sunk to the ground. Blood pooled beneath him as he looked up at his son, face frozen in surprise as the light faded from his eyes._

A smile curls on the time lord's lips, true and satisfactory, as he watches the blood spill from each new wound, splashing at their feet.

_The knife clattered to the ground and John cradled his broken arm as the scene changed once more._

_"Yes,"_ the Doctor comments. _"Very good indeed, Watson. Remember that darkness and anger. Remember, above all, the **p a i n** you endured, and hold onto it.” _

His eyes narrow as the projections around them begin to change once more, curious as to what will attempt to punish Watson next, and whether he will be having any _fun_ soon.

_Twisted metal. Smoke. John stood by the side of the road as frigid rain poured from the black sky above. There had been a wreck. He took one step, then another, before his training kicked in and he rushed toward the car. Part of him recognized it. A dark red Volkswagen. This was Harry’s car._

"Harry!" 

Suddenly his vision clouded and blurred, eyes stinging. Smoke? The Doctor squinted, beginning to cough, his gaze scanning for the faintest of movement in the downpour. So much for Holo-Room, he scolded himself. Why had he made sure the room could handle real atmospherical concepts? Crossing his arms tightly against his chest for warmth, the Doctor began to move. It was only seconds before Watson’s shout brought him to where he needed to be.

_A wreck?_ What was this about? Surely not a memory—the time lord knew the soldier’s life down to his eating habits. Events were nothing he skipped over. No, this was something else… _Harry_ … That was the name of the woman in the car. The name of John Watson’s sister.

_She laid inside, barely moving, blond hair matted with blood._ "No, no, you promised! God, you stupid— Harriet!" _He banged on her window, screaming her name as thunder rolls overhead. From within, a faint orange light began to glow. Fire. The wreck was starting to burn._

"No, come on! Come **on** , Harry!” _John wrapped his fist in his jacket and began slamming it into the window, trying to break the thick glass. Harry raised her head, clearly concussed. Her dark blue eyes tried to focus on John as he frantically beat his hand against the window._

The car was burning, the light from the flames giving the rain still pouring around them a blazing glow. The Doctor placed his hands in his pockets, his head tilted just so. Still pitiful. Still _weak_. Sighing, the time lord closed his eyes briefly, almost disgusted by what he brought aboard this ship. John Watson was the human epitome of strength and bravery and courage, and yet he still did _nothing_ to force his way through the facade of his fears when they were brought before him—when he could do _anything_ to change them if he _just pushed h a r d e r._

It seemed the time lord himself had to take care of it.

_"John? Wha- what’re you, doing…"_

"Harriet, hang on! Unbuckle your seat belt and unlock the door! I need to get you out of there!" 

_The glow began to bloom, and he could feel the heat of the flames even through the downpour. Harry struggled to follow his commands, but the buckle was warped. She was trapped. “John, I think I’m… John? John! The car’s on fire, get me out! Get me out of here, please!”_

"I’m trying! You have to— press the lock, Harry! I can’t get it open! The fucking window won’t break, come on, you have to help me!"

_"John! John, god dammit! Get me out of here! Help me!"_

_She turned toward him, eyes wide as she pressed her hands to the glass. She mouthed his name one more time as the flames engulfed her, burning her hair and causing her eyes to bubble and pop. He turned and ran, bolting away from the impending explosion._

In the middle of his thoughts he missed most of John’s whining and caught what seemed to be the tail-end of the scene. Eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. The Doctor’s gaze picked out Watson and he ran for him. Hologram or not, he most certainly did not want to feel that blaze. As it washed over them, he dove at John, breaking through his concealment and pinning the soldier as he dove into a ditch. John twisted to watch, screaming his sister’s name once before the vehicle exploded in a ball of fire that lit the night.

_One of John's worst fears: he couldn’t save Harry from herself._

The time lord was disgusted, knees pinning John’s legs beneath him as he leaned over the man.

_"What’s **w r o n g** with you Watson? **Hm?** ”_ He gripped the other’s shirt, fabric twisted around his fingers. _"Where’s the soldier I spent so long searching for?"_ The Doctor pulled him up and and pushed back down abruptly, knowing the man’s head would hit the hard floor and not the projected ground they felt themselves. This was real. _“I waited for you. Months, hell **y e a r s** , and when I’ve finally got you, **t h i s** is what you’re giving me? It’s **p a t h e t i c** , and so are **y o u!** ”_ The time lord shook John again, thrusting him once more, harder this time. _**"F i g h t dammit!"**_

His fingers curled into a fist as he let go of John with one hand and brought it back full force, striking the man across his cheek. He pulled up again, continuing to punch his employee between words.

_“I said… **fight…b a c k!** ”_

_Pathetic._ There it is again. John narrowed his eyes as the Doctor swam into focus, raining blows down upon him. One connected with his wounded shoulder— letting out a primal shriek of pain, John wiggled his legs up under the time lord and kicked out, desperate to get free from his tight grasp. The Doctor allowed him to slip away. 

"Fight back?! _**You want me to fight back?!**_ FINE!” John threw his fist forward, feeling it connect with the Doctor’s jaw as he straightened. His hand moved up reflexively to rub his jaw. Though aching, he gave no sign of complaint—in fact, he almost smiled. _Now this was more like it._ “You wanted nightmares?! You wanted to break me?! _**I will give you exactly what you fucking want** you sick bastard!_ Get the fuck off of me and I _will show you a real bloody nightmare!”_

He lashed out at the Doctor once more as the scene shifted around him. The next blow pushed him back, and the time lord was forced to steady himself. The realization of John’s strength drew a low chuckle from him, his gaze reaching for the other’s as the lights flickered out.

_Blackness. Pure blackness. Dark enough to choke. In the center of the pit, with the earth beneath his feet, John spat blood and raised luminescent blue eyes to the alien before him._

_“You want twisted, Doctor? You wanted a n i g h t m a r e ?”_

_John spread his arms wide, never lowering his gaze. From the shadowed depths of the scene, a creature rose— thin, dark, body decorated in silver tattoos. Six silver eyes, a mawed stomach… it’s a visage of horror older than the earth._

_And it seemed to respond to John’s orders._

The time lord watched John carefully, eyes widening just slightly when, at his very command, his most terrifying nightmare was summoned. John was the controller of this beast, and its attention was focused on one thing alone: _the Doctor._

_Here, with John’s mind in control, furious as he was? He could control the things that made him wake screaming in the night. It’s automatic, the way he turned the creature into a weapon, as if it was second nature. It read his pains, his rage, and it responded in turn._

_“TEAR. HIM. A P A R T.”_

The Doctor couldn’t help it: he broke out into a grin. _How precious. “Oh, Johnny,”_ he breathed, his tongue clicking. _"This isn’t how I work. And this won’t be how you work. You see—"_ The Doctor raised an arm before him, palm out, as the creature reared before him, pale skin glistening. He could feel the heat of its breath as its jaws snapped shut just before him. But it was stopped. With the smallest command, he has disappeared from the matrix once more, the code enveloping him. The creature’s lost its sight, and now so has John. 

With the heir of a man who lived and breathed the ways of intimidation and terror, he strode around the beast and towards John. Standing behind him, the being swiftly wrapped one arm around his stomach and the other across his chest like a seat belt, holding him in place. The moment he touched the soldier, the code was broken again. But now it wasn’t the Doctor who had to worry.

_"You can’t let others do your dirty work,"_ he whispered, breath brushing the other’s ear as he struggled. _“You have to get your hands dirty. Y o u have to wash the blood off. And now what’s your precious pet here got, hm? He’s turned on you. **And so will e v e r y o n e else.** "_ The arm he had around John’s chest then looped around his neck, tightening. _"I’m only trying to show you what you’re up against, Watson. You want to learn how to play the game, then w a t c h."_

The Doctor stepped back abruptly, continuing to do so for a few yards, and by the time John turned to face him again, there was another figure beside the Doctor, kneeling, tears streaking her cheeks. A small handgun has materialized in the time lord’s hand and was held just beside her temple.

"This is how you fight an enemy," he stated, voice echoing. "This is how you bring them down. Find their weakness and exploit it. Now, would you like to call off that little beastie of yours, or shall I pull the trigger on your dear sister now?"

_Let her die._

The thought that surfaced was entirely unbidden. John was furious, spurred on by the Doctor’s grip and the icy chill of his tone— if he let go of that, he’d be just as weak as the alien accused him of being.

"… Go ahead. Pull the trigger." _It’s not real. None of this is real._

The Doctor’s brows rose in surprise. He hadn’t entirely counted on this to be John’s response. He’d expected the man to call it off, to beg for the time lord not to hurt her. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or concerned. What had gone wrong?

"You’re going to regret this, Watson. This could very well be your real sister. Am I not just another nightmare? Another villain to be dealt with? What am I in this world but another creature in your mind who now has hold of the one thing you still hold dear? All of this is _y o u r_ creation. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t have snatched darling Harry here up while you slept. _No_ , I couldn’t have possibly have planned for this exact moment to turn out as it has, could I? You know… _I’m not quite sure_ ," he breathed, a small twisted smile curling on his lips, the gun still steady on his target. _"Why don’t you ask her yourself? **Get u p !** ”_ He spat the order at Harry, nudging her temple with the cool metal, frowning as she sobbed and shook.

_”Go on. Have a nice **c h a t** with your brother.”_

He didn’t. John was sure of that. If it were Harriet--the real Harriet--there would have been a ring on her finger. In the dim light, John couldn’t see her hands to make sure. Still, he wasn’t certain if he should risk it. The Doctor, after all, commanded him to fight.

"Harry. What was the name of my first kiss?"

Something only Harry knew, that was the way to be sure. He blanked his mind and stared her down, utterly passive. The Doctor’s eyes never strayed from John, trying to gauge his emotions and thoughts. What was going on in the mind of this little soldier?

_"V-Veronica, it was Veronica! John…please. H-help me!"_ The woman’s sobs draw his attention, and he’s no longer focused on the man he’s welcomed on board. 

_**"Q u i e t!”**_ the time lord barks, his eyes dark. _"How about it Watson?"_ he asks, not turning his head away to look at the employee, gun still cocked. _"Is she r i g h t?"_

Scowling, the creature behind John faded into nothing. “Yes. Yes, that’s…” though still tense, the fight leaves John. He doesn’t stop scowling, though, as he takes a step forward.

"… Fine. You have my sister, and I _s t o p p e d_ . Where do we go from here?”

The Doctor could hear it—the loss in John’s voice. He was hesitant, not that he’d ever admit it to his boss. He was worried.

_G o o d._

The time lord looked up at Watson, keeping his expression clear as lowered the gun.

"Now? Now we do _this_ —” He pushed Harry towards her brother roughly, allowing her to walk the distance between them, stumbling and sobbing. “Go on-- _you’ve earned it._ You’ve proved you can at least stand up to me, but you have far more to learn before you will _e v e r_ fight back.”

As his sister stumbled forward, John wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. They never got on, but he still loved her. He still cared about her. “Harry… Harry, it’s alright. I’ve got you. I’ll get you home, somehow, okay? Back to Clara.”

He raised his eyes to The Doctor, still full of rage. “God help you if I learn, then.”

The time lord sneered in disgust at the reunion, giving John his few precious moments of happiness before he begins to follow through on the plan, hand steadying its grip on the pistol once more.

"You’re right," he replied, his arm raising once more. _"It’s too bad I don’t believe in him.”_

The gun fired, bullet hitting its target dead-center—Harry’s back. It would easily pass through to lodge and settle in her heart. The room rings around them for a moment, falling to silence as John Watson holds his dead sister in his arms.

_“Like I said— **e x p l o i t** the weakness. Your lesson, unfortunately, is over for the day. Now I know just how much work we have left to do.”_

_**“H A R R I E T !"** _

John clung to her limp body, fighting to apply pressure to the bullet wound. It was no use, though; it was lodged in her heart. She was dead, and there was nothing he could do. John’s head snapped up, and he shot the Doctor a look that could shatter ice. Venomous, full of loathing, it promised suffering.

"You complete and utter _bastard!_ I’ll tear you apart with my bare fucking _hands!_ ” he hissed, cradling the corpse of Harriet close. He couldn’t bring her back, but he could make the Doctor pay. John would hold onto this, until a time arose where he could tear the heart out of the Doctor’s chest.

And he would.

Gladly.

The Doctor sighed, his eyes rolling at John’s threat. He would never refer to it as empty. Just…useless.

"You’re far too easy to toy with, Watson. To pull at. It will be your greatest weakness unless you are taught to tear away the connections that you have. I won’t be the worst thing that happens to the people you once cared for. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to document your progress, and unfortunately that means you have to leave. _Now._ ”

The Doctor’s gaze dropped down to Harriet’s body, limp and pale, her blood pooling at John’s feet and soaking into the front of his clothes. He doesn’t let his gaze linger long, instead refocusing on John with a dead stare. His mind was elsewhere—the generators, to be exact. They could only take so much each day. The gun the Doctor had been holding had already dematerialized behind his back. Of course, Watson paid no mind to this detail yet in his rage. But tonight perhaps, laying in bed, he would realize, and that was all the soldier needed to know what his true weakness in this session had been. 

“ _Move_ , Watson.”

Snarling, John laid Harriet down on the floor and folded her arms over her chest. He left without a word, turning on his heels and limping slightly as he headed back toward his bedroom. The Doctor stood solitary as John stormed out of the room to the best of his ability—he’d aggravated his bullet wound. The time lord would have to check on the stitches in the morning and change out the dressings.

With hands in his pockets, his gaze laid on that of Harriet Watson’s body. She’d been perfect really. How fickle of John to forget that the alien invested far too much time in his employee’s past to not be able to answer such a simple question. But there was no doubt now that his soldier would soon come to the realization of his error. But these were problems to be discussed in the morning, and as the Doctor turned to leave, his steps echoing through the metal of the ship, the lights in the Holo-Room turn out and the image of Harry Watson faded away.

_God, I hate him. I fucking **hate** him,_ John thought. He would slam the door if he could, but the Tardis was too sleek to have a door _for_ him to slam. Scowling hard, he sunk down on the bed and closed his eyes. As he laid stewing in his own rage, a little thought nagged at his mind. His hands.

They were clean.

"Oh, you son of a _bitch_ ,” he muttered, laughing weakly. Another test, just another fucking test. Harry was perfectly fine, probably off somewhere with Clara back in London. _Safe._

Sadly, though, he knew this meant he’d failed.


End file.
